- Appearance of the Season. Approach of Winter. Death of the Flowers.-Poetry: Holly and Ivy.-Ancient Carol.-Laurel.—Misletoe Bough.-Druids.—Origin of decking Houses.-Stow.-Scripture Illustra- tion.-Snow.-Meadows.-Cattle.-Birds. - Orchards.-Gardens.-Fire- side Comforts.-Poetry.—December.—Bats.—Dormice.—Squirrel.—Re- flections on Christmas.-Washington Irving.-Decay of old Customs.- Yule Clog.-Christmas Candles.-Herrick.-Christmas Eve.-Waits.— Tusser.-Sermon.-Christmas Dinner.-Boar's Head.-Wassail-bowl.— Book of Christmas.--Ancient Customs.-Old Winter.-Ben Jonson.- Christmas Sports.-Universality of Christmas.-Old Songs.-Description BEAUTIES OF THE COUNTRY. THERE's many a green and lovely spot Embosom'd in the silent hills, And many a woodbine-trellis'd cot By which the wild bird sweetly trills, And there the sound of village-bells Now mingling with the river's song, As near at hand they seem to play, And there are sounds within the woods, And babbling tongues in foamy floods, And dreamy tones in falling showers ;- A deep, a thrilling oratʼry. B Oh deem not that the forest-glen, The sedgy marsh, the mountain weary, The piny peaks, and caverns rude, Possess a holy solitude. The May-pole on the village-green, With many a gaudy garland hung; The happy faces that are seen, young, The merry shouts of old and How happy, too, the angler's life, Who sits on flowery banks all day, And hears no sound of pain or strife, But calmly dreams his life away In converse with the bards and sages, Or reading good old Walton's pages! How sweet on autumn eves to roam, When the trees wear the rainbow's dye; To hear the shout of harvest-home Floating along the silent sky; Then at some turning to behold The wain move by like bundled gold! BEAUTIES OF THE COUNTRY. 3 The hunter on the lonely moor, Amid the fern and bracken brown, Who underneath the hawthorn hoar In the still solitude sits down, And gazes from his forest throne, Seems living in the world alone. Or wending by the woodland's side, Or happy group sit on the ground: The loud song of the rural swain, What time the sheeted wild-rose blows,. For who loves not the shady trees, The smell of flowers, the sound of brooks, The song of birds, and hum of bees Murm'ring in green and fragrant nooks; The voice of children, in the spring, Along the field-paths wandering? |